


better than stars or water

by llassah



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fae & Fairies, Imaginary Friends, M/M, season one rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1985208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llassah/pseuds/llassah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Stiles smells like the forest, like the sun on the leaves, and his skin is warm and smooth under Scott’s hands, heart jumping rabbit-fast. He seems like prey, but darts out of the way easily when he chooses to. His wings feel warm and alive when Scott's hands brush against them, and he shivers when they're touched. It starts feeling less like play, starts feeling softer. Like it’s something sacred. He feels as though he has a hollow space inside him, a space he’s making just for Stiles.</em>
</p><p>His whole life, Scott has been drawn to the preserve. It has always felt as if he’s looking for something out there, a part of himself that he lost a long time ago that he’s been chasing ever since. When he is bitten by a werewolf, he finds the missing part of his heart, and the most important friend he’s ever had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	better than stars or water

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Sciles Reverse Bang](http://scilesreversebang.tumblr.com/). This work was inspired by [SuperfluousEmi's stunningly beautiful art](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1938792) . Thank you very very much S Z Grey for the stellar beta. I am indebted to you.

Scott wakes up on top of the bedsheets, leaves in his hair, mud on his feet, the last wisps of a dream clearing from his mind as he opens his eyes. He was chasing, or being chased. He picks out a twig from underneath him, a few pieces of moss. He had been scared, excited. He doesn't quite remember details. Everything feels fragmented, the colors muted in some places, too bright in others. He remembers he was in the woods, though. He wants to go back. His whole life, he's always wanted to wander through the woods, following some kind of urge or impulse, drawn to the crunch of leaves beneath his feet, the smell of the soft rotting wood, fungus on tree stumps and the light through the trees above. He went to the woods last night, the night before, but he doesn't know why, and he never remembers what he did. The night before that—

— the night before that, he went to the woods to think, came back with a wound in his side, and that's where all this started, the dreams, the weird impulses, something wilder about his old wistful longing. It feels darker than his old childhood dreams and wishes. He thinks he can hear laughter, or maybe the wind, as he picks flowers from his hair. The laughter is familiar, but he doesn't know why.

When he leans back against the tiles in the shower and runs his hand down his unscarred side, he feels as if the list of things he doesn’t know keeps getting longer. He's going to be late for school, though. He knows that much at least. He kisses his mom on the cheek as he grabs his backpack, kisses her on the forehead when he sees how tired she looks. She tells him to be good and he tells her he always is, promises to bring her dinner.

He usually rides his bike to school, but today his legs feel twitchy, restless. He has more energy than he knows what to do with, so he cuts through the preserve to get to school through the playing fields. He runs all the way without stopping, chest loose, lungs working as they should, as they never did before, covering the distance much more quickly than he should be able to, given how many problems he has with his breathing, his stamina. He hasn't asked his mom if he could have grown out of his asthma, hasn't asked her about wolves, hasn't asked her about hearing voices or feeling a prickling in his gums when he gets mad, or how a wound could heal in a night. He doesn't know if he would like the answers she gave him, if she were to give him any at all. He’ll ask Deaton, if he doesn’t feel any better soon.

When he stops to make sure that he's on the right path, he thinks he hears the laughter again, but it doesn't feel mocking, or unkind. It's like whoever is laughing is waiting for him to get the joke. In that moment, with the sun filtering through the leaves, the scent of the ground after the rain heavy in the air, he feels like he's exactly where he should be. It's a rare feeling. It makes him smile as he starts running again, makes him smile all the way to class. Maybe today won't be so bad.

He gets through the morning by breathing, deep and slow. Noises go from being normal volume to too loud. He hears people talking three classrooms over, moves his head jerkily in the direction of every sound, the pitter-patter of his heart nearly overwhelming when he panics. He can’t breathe, can’t focus and he’s afraid he’s going to hurt someone, to lash out like a frightened dog, all instinct and fear. He keeps his head down. Stays quiet. Isaac keeps giving him looks, like he wants ask what’s happening. Scott hides in a stairwell during lunch break, backed into the corner, hands over his ears. Keeps breathing. He wants to run, to test out the strength in his legs, to prove he can—to prove he can—

—he looks down at his hands, resting on the floor, at the long scores he's left on the tiles, at his claws, the way they force his knuckles to bend. They appeared without him even noticing. His mouth tastes of blood. He runs his tongue over his teeth, feels a sharp scratch, a sting, breathes and breathes and breathes because it's the only thing he can do, because he has teeth and claws, and his body is changing and nobody, _nobody_ asked him if he wanted it to. The warning bell drills through his head, actually _hurts_ as it reverberates down the stairwell, sound bouncing off the hard stone in all directions. He hunches over, whining in pain, all animal, all impulse, _get out, get out_ an insistent drumbeat through his head. As soon as he can stand, he's out through the fire escape door, across the lacrosse field, sobbing for breath. He runs to the woods, away from slamming doors and jarring voices, away from scents he can't identify that repulse and attract. Away from people he could hurt, because he has fangs, and claws, and he's scared, and that's all you need to hurt someone, even if you don’t want to.

He keeps his head down as he runs, runs, keeps on going until he's lost, totally lost, up in the hills where the forest is thick, all briars and tree roots that look like contorted limbs, low hanging branches and ivy that curls and winds in strangling loops. There are caves here, and rocks that look as though giants dropped them. Tracks that cross each other then disappear into nothing, little hollows with tiny delicate bones scattered nearby, scraps of animal fur. He can't hear the city any more. Everything's wild, here, no people. No one to hurt. He stops and leans against a broad oak, the bark rough against his back. The sunlight is murky here, dapples the floor a dull green, warms the leaves and sends tendrils of steam up from the ground to dance with the dust motes. He's lost his claws. He lets his head thud back against the oak, breath slowing as panic gradually leaves his limbs.

A kind of drugged lassitude takes its place, like all the fear is seeping out, leaving sleep in its wake. He should still be scared, maybe, but he's never been scared in the woods; even when he's lost, he's safe. He's safe because he still has—has—

— he can't think of the word. It's like there's something at the edge of his mind, at the tip of his tongue. Just out of reach. Letting himself slide to the ground, he leans his back up against the oak, closes his eyes. Sleep. Sleep is all he needs. When he wakes up, all of this will make sense. Everything will be fine. He slumps down, breathes in the rich loam scents, and lets his mind go where it will. He's safe here. He can’t hurt anyone.

He wakes up with the feeling of being watched, keeps his eyes closed as his hackles rise. It's cooler now; he can tell that it's dark, that he's slept for a long time. He keeps his eyes closed, tries to keep his breathing steady. Maybe they'll leave, if he stays quiet enough. It feels as if everything is balanced on a knifepoint, like all he has to do is move a single toe and everything will change. He breathes softly. He can smell the forest, the dampness of the fallen dew. It's still quiet, but he can hear the steady thud of a heartbeat close by. He shouldn't be able to, shouldn't be able to hear the swish of blood. He moves then, rolls over, wants to get away, wants, for a delirious moment, to keep on running, to get completely lost in the woods, to go feral, sleep in a cave.

"Stay calm," the watcher says. "If you don't stay calm, it takes over."

Scott scrambles up, feet skidding on the damp leaves, turns to face the stranger. His claws are out, and he can feel the prickling in his gums again, the sliding of his bones against each other. It's a man, not much older than he is, standing very still a few yards away, observing him. His skin is pale, his hair dark. It's hard to tell what color his eyes are. "What takes over? What am I? Why do I keep on-- why do I have claws?"

The stranger tilts his head to one side, hands in his pockets. "Congratulations," he says, tone very even. "You're a werewolf."

"N-no. It can't be-- werewolves don't exist. I'm sick, it's a side effect, I'm tired, or— it has to be—"

"A bad cold, maybe? Maybe it's mono. I hear that gives you claws," he says, a mocking lilt to his voice. "And teeth, and glowing eyes, and did I mention the claws?"

Scott lunges for him, doesn't even think about it as he launches himself claws first, trying to swipe at his torso, to bring him down and bury his teeth in his throat, he has all this anger rolling through him, power singing through his bones and for a beautiful moment it feels as if he'll win—

The stranger sidesteps, cuffs him around the back of the head and sweeps his legs out from underneath him, pins him to the floor. His eyes glow an eerie blue in the darkness. His growl rattles through Scott's bones as he stares Scott down, relentless, not loosening his grip at all. "I can't be," Scott says again, but even to his ears he sounds unsure. "Are—are you?"

"I was born a werewolf. I grew up here, with my family. We used to live here," he says. The past tense isn't lost on Scott. He remembers his father coming home smelling of ash, holding him too tight to breathe.

"You're Derek Hale. You—you left. With your sister."

The grip on his shoulders tightens until he can feel his bones grind together, then loosens just as suddenly. "After the fire. We went to New York. We couldn't stay. Wasn't safe. But she came back here."

"I was bitten, wasn't I? Is that how— is that why I'm a werewolf? Did you bite me? Did your sister?"

Derek keeps breathing steadily. His face is closed off, completely blank. "Laura's dead," he says. "They found her body. Some of her body. And now, well. There's a search party out looking for you. People are getting twitchy about animal attacks, since my sister. And now you've gone missing, too, Scott McCall. And you won't be the last."

Scott renews his struggles, tries to arch up, to do something, anything. "You sound like you're gonna murder me!" he grits out, digging his heels into the soft ground, trying to get purchase. "I just need to get home. I won't tell anyone, I swear, I won't tell them you bit me—"

Derek covers Scott’s mouth with his hand to silence him, doesn’t even move it when Scott licks it. Derek looks as if he’s counting to ten in his head, an expression his mom has made him very familiar with. "The bite's a gift, Scott. But I didn't bite you. Whoever— whichever werewolf killed Laura, they bit you. And they want you to be in their pack. They're gonna keep trying to call you to them. That’s why you’ve been restless, twitchy. They want you in their pack. I don't know why it hasn't worked yet..." he frowns, distracted. Scott wants to ask more questions, but Derek puts his hand up, head to the side. "Search party's here," he says, and stands up, offering his hand to Scott.

"What do I tell them? I can't explain— I'm in the middle of nowhere!"

Derek looks at him for a few seconds. A smile that isn't really a smile crosses his face. "Tell them you were looking for a body," he says. "I'll find you when it's safe. Stay calm." He melts into the trees just as the first dog starts barking and the beams from the flashlights start to show. Scott sags back against the tree, his hand going to the place where the other werewolf bit him. He is starting to think that werewolves are mainly dicks.

*

The Sheriff drives him home in his patrol car. He’s draped a scratchy woolen blanket over Scott’s shoulders, has the heating turned up to high. Scott likes the Sheriff. He's a kind man, a good one. He's honest, even when the questions are difficult, even when the person asking them is a child. On bad nights, Scott used to wish Sheriff Stilinski was his dad instead of his real one, used to feel so guilty afterwards he'd have to hide his hot face under the comforter, to close his eyes tight, so tight. "You okay, kid?" the Sheriff asks, eyes still on the road. Scott leans his head against the window, plays with the frayed hem of the blanket.

"I'm fine. I wasn't scared," he says. When the Sheriff had come, when Scott had been surrounded by dogs and strange men in outdoor gear, Scott had wanted to just run over and hug him, to bury his face in the Sheriff's coat. "I just got lost. Lost track of time."

The Sheriff pulls the patrol car over, kills the engine. He looks at Scott in a way that makes him feel pinned to the spot, makes him want to bare his throat. Scott meets his eyes, breathes in and out, does multiplication in his head to keep himself calm. After what feels like forever, the Sheriff sighs. "You're a good kid, Scott. But it isn't safe in the preserve at the moment. You've always loved it there, and I know sometimes it was more—it was more your home than the house you live in," he says, then scrubs a hand across his face, down his chin. "Sorry, that was out of line, and I mean no disrespect to your mother, lord knows she tried when...but son, I don't want you to end up as another Beacon Hills mystery. Take care, kid, and let someone know the next time you decide to go wandering. You had us all worried."

Scott swallows, nods. When the Sheriff had seen him, he had opened his arms, just a little, sagged as if his strings had been cut. If Scott had taken the few steps towards him, if the dogs and the strange men hadn't been there shining lights in his eyes and asking him questions over and over, he would have hugged him, held him tight. "I'm sorry, sir," he says. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"I know, kid. I know," the Sheriff sighs, reaches over and grips the back of his neck, hand a warm, reassuring weight. Scott leans into it, something in him relaxing at the touch. "I'd better get you home to your mom." Scott tries not to look too nervous at that, but the Sheriff grins at him, starts the car again. "Buy her flowers for the next few weeks, and expect a lot of chores," he says. Scott sinks down further into his seat. He had only run to keep people safe. Was this going to be what the rest of his life was like? Running and being caught, and never being able to explain why?

*

Scott leaves the curtains open that night, the light of the moon making everything stark black and silver. Despite the fear of the day, he feels calm, rested, legs weighed down with sleep. He breathes in deeply, breathes out again. Maybe this time he'll find whatever it is he's looking for in the woods. Whoever. He stares up at the moon until his eyes won't stay open any more.

He dreams of running, bounding through the preserve, leaves kicking up behind him. Someone is calling him, the one who made him. They're tied together by the bite; Scott owes obedience. They will hunt together tonight. It is right. He keeps running, faster and faster, tugged along, claws and teeth sharp, eyes keen. They will share their first kill. He is needed, will take down anyone who stops him, runs and runs, blood singing in his veins, but then he hears that laughter again. Catches a familiar scent that reminds him of good things, of summers that stretched out for miles, of running through the woods and never getting lost. He whines, confused, bones pulled in two different directions. The wolf who made him growls again, a low, throbbing sound, all threat and he shakes his head like a wet dog to dislodge it. He has no master. He chases the laughter instead, up the slope away from the town, throws off the call of the wolf. Tonight he will play, not kill. He runs faster, faster. He'll get there soon, soon.

*

“Scott. Scott, wake up. Scott, c’mon.”

Scott rolls over, groaning. He has leaves stuck in his hair and clothes and his mouth tastes like something died in it. “Ugh, five more minutes,” he groans, his arm over his eyes to shield them from the morning light. Right now, he doesn’t care where he is or where he has to be. His brain is molasses.

“Scott. Scotty! Scotty McScotterson. I swear if you don’t get up right now—”

He puts his hands over his ears, closing his eyes tight shut as Stiles—

Hang on. “Stiles?” he croaks, then, “Stiles!” as he’s tackled, his hands are dragged from his ears as Stiles straddles him, grinning down at him, his eyes nearly glowing with joy, alight, almost amber. His skin is that familiar beautiful green, dappled over like it’s shadowed. “I thought I’d made you up when I was a kid,” he says. The sun is shining through Stiles’s wings, the delicate veins outlined in them. They’re deceptively fragile looking. Stiles can fly with them. Can fly high and fast with them, diving down into the creek where they used to play, circling the trees up above, day after day through his childhood. “How did I forget?”

This is Stiles, who shared his adventures, showed him the safe ways through the preserve. Stiles, who took him swimming in the creek, looked so happy when he gave him ice creams and shared his snacks, because he had the world’s biggest sweet tooth. Stiles, who never fell over, even when he looked as if he would, who slept in a tree by a broken down jeep in the middle of the preserve, who sang songs in a strange language and didn’t know who his parents were or even if he had any. His very best friend, his partner in crime. The word he’s been looking for for years, wandering the woods, knowing he might never find it, find him.

“How did I forget about you? You were so important,” he says again.

“All children do, after a while,” Stiles says with a little shrug. “We stay close, but you stop seeing us.” He looks sad, briefly, but he never stays sad for long, shakes it off like water. “I knew it was going to happen. I stuck around anyway.”

Everything in his mind is rearranging itself, memories taking on a different meaning, a new emphasis. “I went looking for you, for a while,” he says slowly. “I…did I call for you?”

Stiles nods. “You couldn’t see me, but you knew I was there. You kept looking, never gave up, even when you'd forgotten what you were looking for. And now look at you, Scotty. All grown up with teeth and claws, and eyes to see me, ears to hear me and a nose to smell me, and didn't I teach you not to tangle with the beasties in the preserve?"

Scott can't stop grinning at him, even when Stiles is frowning at him. He has his Stiles back, and now he can do anything. They can do anything. "Yeah, you did. And that cold iron was bad, and that you always told the truth, and to be careful when you accepted a gift—Derek—you heard us, didn’t you? I could feel you there. He called being a werewolf a gift. Is it? Can I trust him?"

Stiles hums, pokes the tip of Scott's nose with one finger, then traces the ridge of his brow, staring down at him as if he’s memorizing his face. "That's up to you, young sapling. But it would be better for him if you did. And it was given as a gift, back then. The Hales would always ask. You, poor boy, weren't asked, so it isn't a gift for you."

"But—but I have you back," Scott says. "Isn't that a gift?"

Stiles's pensive mood shifts, lightning-fast, and he grins, eyes back to that snapping brightness, his wings fluttering a little. "I am a gift, the best gift of all, Scotty, and you, my moon and stars are gonna be late for class. If we run, you'll get back into bed before your alarm goes off. Last one there's a peacock brain!" he cries and he takes off through the preserve, sometimes running, sometimes flying, Scott running as fast as he can to keep up, just like before. He catches up with Stiles as the trees thin out, tackles him to the ground and rolls him over and over as he yelps, long limbs flying out in all directions. They come to a halt with Scott on top, his nose pressed to Stiles's throat, legs tangled together. Scott feels breathless. Stiles doesn't feel like prey, but something altogether more interesting. He smells like everything good, everything Scott has ever wanted. Scott licks a long line up his throat, something in him settling when Stiles sighs, lets his head drop back.

"My Stiles," he whispers. It feels like a promise. Stiles ruffles his hair, then throws him off, laughing when he twists to avoid a tree, faster than thinking.

"If you catch me," Stiles says, and runs again, back into the preserve. Scott wants to chase him, but he has class. He sighs, but his heart is light as he jogs the last half mile back home.

*

One of the school buses is cordoned off. He can smell blood and the wolf who bit him. He closes his eyes, calms himself down by counting heartbeats as speculation buzzes around him. This is what the wolf wanted. He closes his eyes, feeling sick to his stomach as Sheriff Stilinski and his deputies clear the area, as an ambulance pulls into the parking lot. He feels eyes on him, watching. He forces himself back under control, thinking of Stiles, of summer until he's happier. He didn't kill anyone. He doesn't have to kill. "Scott, locker rooms," Derek murmurs, and Scott sees a flash of leather jacket as Derek walks in to the school with a crowd of students.

When he gets to the empty locker rooms, Derek is pacing, looks tired. "Did you— did they—"

Scott shakes his head, can feel himself smiling despite how tense Derek is, how anxious. "I didn't."

Derek stops in front of him, stares at him. "How?" he murmurs, and he walks right around Scott, slowly.

"No idea," Scott says, and Derek raises both eyebrows.

"You're lying. Scott, you've found something that keeps you from following your Alpha. I need— I need to know what it is. You're breaking all the rules," he says, sounding incredibly put out. "I need to know what's giving you control."

Stiles never told him if he should trust Derek, if it was the right thing to do, only that it would be better for Derek if he did. "I have Stiles," is all he says, but Derek scowls, eyes flashing blue, and he's ready to defend Stiles, but Derek lets out a rusty sounding laugh.

"That little hellion used to lure me up into the trees and leave me there when I was a cub," he says. "Used to chatter, fast as a squirrel and throw acorns at us when we ran on the full moon. And he's your guardian. Your fylgia." Derek sighs, sits down on one of the benches, hands loosely clasped between his spread legs. "You're gonna be trouble," he says, but something has lightened in his expression. He doesn't look as tired any more. "But you're gonna be okay. Just—I need your help, and I need you to stay out of trouble."

Scott adjusts his backpack when the first warning bell sounds. "I don't think I can do both," he says. Derek nods, once, then goes back to looking at his hands. His shoulders are a curve, back bent. He looks weighed down. Scott leaves him there, backs out of the locker room. He feels like he should say something to make him feel better, but he doesn’t know how to begin. Derek scares him, with how alone he seems. If being a werewolf is all about being alone and scared, then he doesn’t want it.

*

He sits with Boyd at lunch. Everyone else keeps asking him where he went yesterday. In a horrible guilty kind of way, he's relieved that the bus driver was attacked, because otherwise it would be far worse. Boyd just sits quietly, watching the world go by. At the end of lunch, Scott stands up, picks up his tray. "Good talk," he says as usual. Boyd just nods, the side of his mouth twitching a little.

For history, he's partnered with Allison Argent, the new girl. They're meant to be discussing the Spanish Civil War, but they've somehow gotten onto talking about longbows and Scott has no idea why. She's easy to talk to, smiles with her whole face, and teases in a way that never feels unkind. "I wanna be your friend," he blurts out, then sinks his head into his hands. "Sorry, sorry, that sounded like I was in kindergarten, you know, when you just, like, stepped up to someone all 'we're friends now,' and that was all you needed to say."

Allison's laugh is lovely, clear as a bell. "Yes, we can be friends. Do you think we should pinky swear?" she asks seriously, so Scott puts out his pinky finger, just to see what she does. They end the class sworn friends, with no idea about anything to do with the Spanish Civil War. Not even what century it was in. He knows that she can use a bow and arrow, and that she can draw, can do a hundred different things but never thinks she does them well enough. She hero worships her aunt, and she thinks her parents are hiding something from her but she doesn’t know what. He offers to teach her to skateboard and she grins at him, says she’d love to. He knows she moves schools a lot, and that she’s made friends with Lydia and she thinks Jackson’s an idiot. “But a pretty idiot,” she adds with a wicked smile, and Scott can’t help but smile back.

History is the last peaceful class he has. He gets more and more unsettled as the day continues. Every noise is too loud, every smell too strong. Everyone is talking about the body, the lacrosse game that's coming up tonight, the winter formal. Every word irritates him. He missed out on tryouts because he ran away; he narrowly avoided becoming a murderer and he'll never get a date to the winter formal. He looks out into the woods. Wonders where Stiles is.

*

He goes to see his mom after class, and they eat their dinner together in the staff room, plates balanced on their knees. She’s worried about him still, so he tells her about Allison. “She makes me laugh, mom, and she’s, like, Robin Hood with a bow and arrow. She’s my friend,” he says, and she smiles at him.

“Did you make a pact, kid?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

Scott ducks his head, laughs despite himself. “We actually pinky swore,” he says, and she smiles at him, shakes her head. “I couldn’t help it, mom, I straight out asked her to be my friend,” he tells her. “And she said yes, even if I did sound dumb.”

“I like her already,” his mom says, ruffles his hair. She seems less tired when she goes back to her shift. He kisses her cheek, buys her flowers from the second floor booth on the way out. They never really get him off the hook, but they make her smile, even if they sometimes make him sneeze on the walk home.

Derek's sitting in a chair in his bedroom when he gets home. "Dude, that is so creepy," Scott says, a little impressed despite himself.

"I needed to talk to you," Derek says, like it explains everything. Maybe for Derek it does. Scott puts his backpack next to his desk, sits cross legged on his bed. They sit in silence for what feels like hours, but is probably only half a minute. Just when Scott is about to break the silence, Derek leans forwards, stares at Scott without blinking. "There are people who want to kill us. They call themselves hunters. They say they have a code, but they'll break it if one of us so much as sneezes. And there's an Alpha on a murdering spree, so they're not gonna ask many questions before they shoot, even if you're not in his pack. The Alpha will be getting impatient with you. He might try and use force to make you join him. Subdue you."

"So everyone wants to kill me, or make me a killer? Good talk, thanks. I feel better already," Scott says, flops back on his bed with a huff. Derek makes a noise a little like a growl, and when he next speaks, his voice is full of frustrated, forced patience. Scott gets the impression he doesn’t like talking much.

"I'm not here to make you feel better, Scott. I'm here to keep you alive. You can't just run around with Stiles every time you feel the pull to your Alpha, every time you lose control. The thing that keeps you human has to come from inside of you, has to be something real that you can use at any moment. Then you'll be able to control yourself, to only shift when you want to. Otherwise, you'll lose control."

Scott sits up. "I don't want to hurt anyone," he says. Derek looks at him for an uncomfortably long time.

"Keep that idea in your mind. Repeat it over and over. Use it. If it’s a strong enough idea, it’ll keep you anchored, keep you from running wild."

“Derek, I don’t want to be scared of myself. I want—I don’t want this.”

Derek frowns as he stares at him, seems kind of baffled. “You’d rather be human?” he asks. Scott nods, swallowing. “I don’t think that’s gonna happen. I’m sorry. There are stories out there, legends, that say you can become human by killing the alpha who made you, but I’ve never heard of that happening for real. And…I don’t think you’re a killer, Scott. I don’t think you ever want to be, even if it means you get to be human. And it’s not so bad, being a werewolf. I can teach you how to keep yourself from hurting anyone, teach you how to fight well.”

“Aren’t they, like, mutually exclusive?”

Derek levels him with a deeply unimpressed look. “That depends on how much you enjoy losing fights and getting killed.” Derek gets up, jerks his head in the direction of the window and jumps out without a sound. With a last look at his backpack and all his assignments, Scott follows. There’s a curfew, but his mom's working nights. It'll be okay.

What follows is an hour of being thrown into trees and yelled at when he grows claws. He's so preoccupied with keeping calm that he doesn't notice Stiles until he looks up at the tree he's just been thrown into and sees Stiles holding up two pieces of bark with 07 scored into them. He grins, leaps up and grabs Stiles's ankle, pushes off against the tree so they're flying through the air together, rolls them to a stop by Derek's feet as Stiles laughs.

"Well met, wolf," Stiles says, grinning up at Derek, all insolence. He sobers quickly though, rolls Scott off him and stands up straight, adjusting the light tunic he always wears and spreads his wings out behind him. "We are saddened by your loss, and welcome you to take refuge here," he says. Derek's eyes widen, but he inclines his head.

"Sorry, I—I don't know the full words to use. Never learned them. But—the Hale pack accepts, with thanks. Our— our hearth..."

"Your hearth extends a welcome to me and my kind," Stiles finishes for him. It feels weird, seeing Stiles being formal, serious. There are some things, though, some things that he has always been stern about. Iron, and telling the truth, always. Respecting the Sheriff is another, although he calls him peacekeeper. Not eating the berries from certain trees and bushes is another. Staying out of the coyote caves is another. Using the right words must be something important, too. Scott never needed to when they were kids, never needed to be formal with Stiles. They would yell and play together, push each other over and sleep on top of each other, cuddling together for warmth. It was hard to tell, sometimes, where one of them ended and the other began.

"Stiles, how old are you?" he asks suddenly, breaking the odd silence between Stiles and Derek.

"As old as my teeth," Stiles says, and Scott knows he won't get more of an answer than that. But Stiles used to be the same size as him and has grown at the same rate. With his slender build, his messy hair, he could easily be one of Scott's classmates. But he knows every inch of the woods around the town, and sometimes, when he forgets Scott's looking, he can seem ancient, ageless. Stiles grins down at him. "Scotty, you should know I'm not giving it up that easily," he croons, darts out of the way when Scott grabs for his ankle.

"But you can't lie!"

"Old as my teeth, youngling. Old as my teeth. Nothing could keep me from telling you the truth, for this is as true as the sun."

Scott jumps for him, but keeps his hands unclawed, his teeth human. He laughs as they playfight, as Derek leans against a tree, watching them with long suffering patience. After a few minutes, Scott forgets he’s even there. Stiles smells like the forest, like the sun on the leaves, and his skin is warm and smooth under Scott’s hands, heart jumping rabbit-fast. He seems like prey, but darts out of the way easily when he chooses to. His wings feel warm and alive when Scott's hands brush against them, and he shivers when they're touched. It starts feeling less like play, starts feeling softer. Like it’s something sacred. He feels as though he has a hollow space inside him, a space he’s making just for Stiles.

The howl feels like a gunshot. It scatters his thoughts, his play. His head snaps up instantly, and he has to bite his lip to keep his claws from coming out immediately. The Alpha feels…smug, somehow. They roll apart and Scott sits up, feeling a little sick. “He’s killed someone,” he says quietly. “He keeps killing people. Do you know why?”

“He leaves spirals,” Stiles says. “Cuts them into the deer, into the trees. He started out with the madness of the rabid dog, wounded beyond repair, but his body heals, and so he grows cunning.”

“Spirals,” Derek murmurs, looks down at the town spread out below them. “Don’t be seen,” he says to Scott. “I need to find out who was killed. Stay safe,” he says, and clasps Scott’s shoulder briefly before hestarts jogging towards the town, speeding up as he changes form. Scott watches him go until he can’t see him anymore.

“How is he that bad at explaining?” he asks no one in particular. Stiles leans back, wings folding behind him, looks at the spread of lights across the town. Scott looks at his profile, the graceful tilt of his nose, his thick, dark lashes. Stiles is beautiful. Scott had known that when he was a kid, of course, but he’d thought of Stiles as beautiful in the same way as a butterfly or a flower. It’s an earthier desire he has, now, tangled up in the urge to set his teeth at the nape of his neck, to spend hours tasting him, touching him. Maybe that’s why children stop seeing their companions. Their fylgia. Maybe it’s to stop them from wanting them so much when they grow older, to help them to move on to their own peers, to come out of the forests and into the towns, to settle down and stop playing.

“I don’t know how old I am,” Stiles says quietly. “Years turn into centuries at a blink. I fall asleep and wake up in a different time, in a different place. I forget things, easy as falling. Spend a month looking at a sparrow’s nest then a week like a cat on hot stones, not settling for anything.”

Scott scoots closer to him, ducks under his arm. Stiles doesn’t smell human, but he’s warm and alive, familiar. “Is it lonely?” he asks. He’s been lonely sometimes, looking for Stiles. Stiles looks at him, smiles.

“Bless your heart; I have the squirrels and the bees, if there’s no one to talk to. And I can watch from the trees, see all the creatures about their business. Not much I don’t see, here,” he says. “And you were there.”

He says it so simply. As if the times Scott came to the woods to look for something he couldn’t find, the times he was angry, lost, helpless, were enough. As if they were any kind of companionship. “If I stopped being a werewolf, would I still see you?” he asks, his voice wavering a little. Stiles moves in closer, tangles their legs together.

“I can be seen by humans, but it takes strength, concentration. So yes, but only for a short time. It isn’t done lightly. There would be times when you called and I would be there, but you wouldn’t be able to see me." They sit together quietly until Scott can feel himself drifting off, then walk through the trees in step with one another. Neither of them says anything, but it feels like something is settled between them when Scott leaves Stiles at the edge of the preserve.

*

He wakes up in his own bed with a smile on his face, has time to cycle to school. He takes every corner a little too fast, nearly lifts off at every hill and he can hear Derek telling him not to be seen but he doesn’t care, not now. Is this what being in love feels like? A fizzing in your veins, heart light enough to float off? He revels in it, loves his speed, his strength, and in the blissful moments between launching himself up a hill, pedals racing and the rapid descent down the slope, he can understand why Derek called it a gift, even if he never asked for it.

He doesn’t know where Derek is. He hasn’t had any word. He doesn’t even know who to ask about him, who is safe to ask. Derek’s only surviving family now is in a coma, and has been since the fire, and Scott doesn’t know if Derek has a safe refuge or anyone to go to if he’s in trouble. As he gets closer and closer to the school, he can feel his worries start to weigh him down. He thinks he can trust Derek, but he doesn’t know if he wants to, because he’s never done well with being told things, never done well with authority, with people who demand things and don’t explain why, and it doesn’t feel like Derek’s ever going to tell him everything, even when it matters, even when he could turn into a killer. He can still sense the Alpha, just hovering at the edges of his consciousness. He can’t sense Derek, though.

He’s still trying to expand his senses when he swerves into the parking lot, is concentrating so hard he nearly gets hit by an SUV, has to pull the handlebars up sharply and to the side to keep upright, the screech of brakes agony on his ears. He claws briefly, declaws as the window on the driver’s side comes down. He’s already apologizing before the driver even says anything, isn’t quite sure what he says but the driver laughs. It’s a rich laugh, and it relaxes Scott enough to look up, to stop gripping the strap of his backpack. “Easy there, it’s fine. No harm done. You do dirt biking, kid?” the driver asks. She’s pretty, with light brown hair that curls loosely and one of those smiles that draws you in.

“I, uh, I ride the tracks in the preserve, sometimes,” he says, doesn’t know quite whether to say ma’am. The woman nods.

“Those were some pretty fast reactions, there, I was pretty sure I was gonna hit you, but you kind of leapt, there,” she says, and Scott feels a little like he’s at the edge of some quicksand. He shrugs.

“Treeroots,” he says, and she nods slowly. “With the, uh, trees,” he adds and he’d love for the ground to open up because he can smell gun oil on her and maybe she’s harmless but he doesn’t know. “They’re in the preserve, and—”

The passenger door opens and Allison gets out, walks around the front of the car. She’s maybe the most welcome sight in the world right now. “Allison! Hey!” he says and he has no idea how he didn’t just blurt out ‘thank God,’ and from her smile, she knows it.

“Hey, Scott. I’ll see you after school, Kate,” she says to the driver, loops her arm in Scott’s and steers him towards the bike racks. “Sorry about Kate’s driving. She’s really tired, she arrived pretty late last night.”

So this is Allison’s aunt. Her sister, in all but name. He can tell how happy Allison is about her, can kind of pick it up in her scent, which feels a little weird and invasive, but he can’t help it. “It’s okay. I’m just glad you didn’t let me keep on talking. I’m pretty sure I would have, like, started talking about the different types of tree I’ve ridden past,” he confesses, and she smiles, ducks her head and looks up at him through her hair. It doesn’t seem like she’s laughing at him too badly. Just a little.

“Did you do the math assignment?” she asks when he’s secured his bike. He lets his head thud against a nearby tree. He wants to quit school and live in a forest. Stiles would look after him, and definitely wouldn’t expect him to do trigonometry. This time, she really laughs at him.

*

His mom’s working nights this week, so he goes straight to the preserve, leaves his bike next to an oak tree. He goes deeper into the woods, keeping to a steady jog. He keeps seeing little shimmers and flickers out of the corner of his eye, laughter and the murmur of voices. He can smell nectarine, vanilla, scents that don’t belong here that are stranger still, unidentifiable. Some of them entice him, others are acrid, bitter. He stays on the path, follows the tugging on his heart that leads him to—

“Stiles!” who drops straight out of a tree with a whoop, landing with his full weight on top of him. Scott suffers through having his hair thoroughly ruffled and his pockets raided for candy. By the time Stiles sits up, his cheeks are puffed out like a squirrel’s and he’s holding three wrappers between his teeth. Scott can’t stop laughing. “Give the wrappers to me, I’ll take them home,” he says, but Stiles shakes his head.

“I’m keeping ‘em,” he says, voice a little muffled. “You gave ‘em me, so they’re mine now.” He takes the wrappers out of his mouth, clicks his fingers and they’re gone.

Scott grins up at him. He had forgotten about their old game. Stiles used to frisk him for candy every time he came out to play, so Scott saved up his allowance to buy candy for him, never used to eat any of it himself. The candy was a gift, but the way of giving was something they had just fallen into. “Okay,” he says softly. He can’t stop smiling. “What’s mine is yours,” he says, and Stiles’s eyes go wide, as if he’s been hurt, but not hurt. There’s something wide open in his expression, something very young.

“You don’t—you should be more careful,” Stiles tells him, voice a little shaky. Scott reaches up, cups his cheek, wipes off a smear of chocolate with his thumb. Stiles’s skin is soft and warm. It doesn’t feels as if he’s shaved at all. There’s a darker green blooming just above his cheekbones, and Scott strokes his fingers across his blush. “Making—making promises. Words.”

“What if I meant it? What if I said I—” Stiles makes a desperate, hurt sound, almost like a sob, kisses him, cuts off his words so Scott pours his _I love you_ into the kiss, makes it something gentle and sweet. He spreads his legs to make more room for Stiles, sighs as he feels the brush of Stiles’s wings coming down cover them. Stiles is warm, so warm, smells of copper and trees and being alive, tastes of chocolate and sugar. He kisses carelessly, throws himself into it. Scott just lets him take, and take, accepts the press of his tongue, opens up for Stiles with the certainty that he’ll never kiss anyone else like this, and he’ll never want to.

Scott feels dizzy when they stop kissing. Stiles smiles at him, face shadowed by his wings. “I want to show you something,” he whispers, still close. Scott nods, and it feels like an adventure, feels like he’s five again when Stiles launches himself up into the air with a force that swirls the leaves around them. “Come on, keep up!” Stiles yells, flying between the trees at breakneck speed. Scott starts running at a normal pace, nearly loses sight of Stiles as he swoops and darts among the branches. He feels the shift coming over him slowly, as if it’s sinking into him. He grins, his teeth sharp, nose keen. He feels keyed up, powerful, and when he finds Stiles standing in a clearing, he almost bowls him over, almost gives in to the urge to set his teeth into the nape of Stiles’s neck. He doesn’t. He comes to a halt a few feet in front of Stiles.

He’s been here before. In the shadow of a huge, broad oak, there’s a blue jeep with briars growing out of it, wild roses sprawling over the roof and the hood, twined around the rollcage. Stiles holds his hand out, and Scott takes it, lets himself be led up to the oak, scrambles up into its branches, up towhere the leaves are thicker and ivy and brambles twist around each other, hanging vines of wisteria and clematis making a veiled doorway. Stiles lives here. He’s only seen the outside before, but he follows Stiles into his home, wobbling a little as the branch narrows.

When he’s inside, he can’t hold back his gasp , has to turn slowly to take it all in. Stiles’s home is taller than he’d expected, the woven vines and briars reaching up high into the tree, making a narrow vaulted roof. There’s a bed of furs in one corner, and a pile of books with tattered covers. What makes him gasp, though, is the walls. Wherever he looks there drawings and paintings of a boy with messy black hair and a boy with wings. In one, they’re in a spaceship; in another, they’re in the sea. They’re doing everything together; there’s even a crayon drawing of them standing in front of a church holding hands. In between the drawings are colored rocks, seaglass, bottle tops and candy wrappers. Every single thing that Scott ever gave him, every drawing, every gift, they’re all here.

“My treasures,” Stiles says, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

On bad days, when Scott was particularly upset, Stiles used to conjure up diamond necklaces, tiaras, hundreds of shining precious stones, would juggle them as if they were toys, threw them aside when Scott was happy again. These are his treasures, these drawings with their misshapen heads, the grubby-handed gifts that Scott gave him because he wanted to make him happy.

“I love you,” Scott says. Every word feels heavy. Stiles kisses him again, a soft, chaste kiss. He wants to lie down with Stiles on the furs, to stay out here and forget about everything. Stiles won’t let him, though. Or he won’t for very long. He lets his forehead rest on Stiles’s shoulder, breathes in his scent as he listens to the forest around them.

At first, he doesn’t register the sound. It’s just a kind of indistinct thudding noise that barely seems to matter, but it clarifies into an uneven pulse, the sound of someone stumbling, the thump of a body hitting the ground, getting up again. He can smell something wrong, something like blood but not. Stiles has his head tilted to one side. He’s frowning slightly. “So that’s where he is,” Stiles murmurs, and it sounds a little like he’s commenting about the weather, as if it’s intellectual.

“Derek?” Scott asks, but he’s already leaving Stiles’s sanctuary, following the sound to the west of Stiles’s tree. When he finds Derek, he’s flat on the ground, his left leg twitching slightly. “Derek, are you okay? What happened?”

Derek frowns, opens his eyes. He can’t focus on Scott, and his eyes keep flickering between green and an unnerving blue. He’s pale and sweating. “I got shot, following the Alpha. Stupid,” he mutters. Every breath looks as if it’s costing him a lot.

“I thought we healed, why aren’t you healing?” Scott asks, trying to check him for wounds, to check his temperature. Derek bats his hand away.

“Wolfsbane,” he says, like that explains everything. Scott just gapes.

“What kind of wolfsbane?” Stiles asks from behind him, and this time his voice is less dispassionate, but Derek doesn’t respond, eyes slipping shut. The sky above is starting to darken, clouds gathering.

“Is he gonna die?” Scott asks, hating how his voice shakes. Stiles looks at Derek, then at Scott.

“If it gets to his heart. Find shelter closer to the town. I need to find some wolfsbane—well, all the wolfsbane. There are old tricks you can use for this poison, and if I find the right sort for the job, he might yet live.”

Stiles puts his hand on the side of Scott’s neck like a blessing and takes off through the preserve. Scott has somehow managed to surround himself with people who never explain anything properly. “Shelter,” he mutters, heaves Derek up and starts to stumble in the vague direction of a house he remembers sneaking past with Stiles. It’s hard going. Derek’s a dead weight, and keeps twitching and struggling, black viscous fluid leaking from his mouth, his nose. Whatever delirium he’s trapped in, it isn’t pleasant. It starts to rain a few minutes in, the kind of rain that soaks you to the skin. “Shelter, and Stiles will go do—whatever it is he’s doing—and it’ll all be fine. And I can finish writing my history paper. Well, start it.” He kicks the leaves as he goes. Derek doesn’t respond.

The house, when they get there, is more of a shell, and Scott wants to kick himself in the head. The Hale house. Of course it would be the ruins of Derek’s home he’d pick. “Sorry,” he mutters to Derek as he shoulders open the door, stumbles through, “but it might just have some shelter. We’ll be safe here,” he adds, and he wants to kick himself a little more then, because that’s the absolute last thing you should say in a rainstorm when you’re going into a creepy house. He doesn’t get the chance to kick himself, though, because the next thing he feels is a jolt of electricity before he spasms into unconsciousness, Derek thudding to the floor next to him, the sound of a familiar laughter filling his ears.

He regains consciousness suddenly, like he’s waking from a nightmare. His side tingles and his arms ache. It’s hard to breathe with his head hanging down, and he can feel himself losing control of his shift, and all he can think about is how he’s probably worrying his mom sick right now. He lifts his head with an effort, because he doesn’t want to see the person who has captured them, but he knows he needs to. “Oh, baby boy,” Allison’s aunt—Kate—croons. She looks the same as when she was driving the SUV, as if she’s about to tell him the best joke he’s ever heard. “I thought there was something different about you. Boy, these alphas bite them young these days,” she adds, walking over and taking his chin in her warm, dry hand. She pulls his lip down, checking his teeth like he’s a horse and he snaps at her, all instinct, yells a second later when another shock lances through his side, locking up all his muscles. “Did you beg real pretty?”

Scott pants, can’t answer her for a few seconds. He can hear her pulse, a little elevated. He can only hear Derek’s heartbeat faintly, though. He’s shackled right next to him on the wall, and his breathing is so shallow Scott can hardly hear it. He sounds like he’s close to death. “I didn’t ask for it. I was just—I was just in the preserve.”

She arches an eyebrow. “That right, Derek?” she asks, and if her tone of voice made Scott uneasy before, now it makes his skin crawl. She’s looking at Derek with a hunger that lights up her eyes. “Did pretty boy here not want the bite?”

If Scott cranes his neck, he can see Derek, hanging from his shackles. He’s just looking at Kate, nothing but resignation in his expression. Every line of his body looks defeated. “I thought I’d fixed the werewolf problem, baby, I really did. It just didn’t stick,” she murmurs, and lets her fingers run down Derek’s abdomen, eyes intent on every jump and flex of the muscles.

Scott can’t watch this anymore. He doesn’t want to see Derek laid so bare. “What do you want?” he blurts out. Kate doesn’t stop touching Derek, but she does lift her head, look at him with a smile.

“Plenty of things, sweetie. But mostly, I want your alpha. I want you to call your alpha to you, get the whole pack bagged and tagged.”

“He’s not my alpha.” She tuts, walks over to a dial on a rickety table, turns something up. Derek starts to breathe a little harder, blackness spidering out over his arm, black blood trickling down his chin. “I mean it, he isn’t! We never—I’ve never met him, please, no—”

She turns the dial sharply, making Derek’s form shift between human and wolf, making him whine, a horrible keening sound. Scott struggles in his shackles, snarling, pulling at them until they cut into his wrists, yelling for her to stop, begging. When she does, Derek slumps back, shaking.

“How do wolves call their pack, Derek?” Kate asks. Her voice is sweet, so sweet. Derek doesn’t respond.

“They howl,” Scott answers, and he feels the faint tug of the bond with his alpha, the stronger tug of his link with Stiles.

“Then howl, baby boy,” she says, her hand going to the dial again. Scott howls. It’s weak at first, more a yip, or a bark. Derek huffs faintly. Scott wants to tell him he’s trying, but he doesn’t, he takes a deeper breath, focuses on the bond, on the wildness running through it, on the joy of being in the forest, the love of the chase, and he howls, and howls, and howls. The response is like the crackling of a fire, something immediate, visceral.

“He’s coming,” Scott says, once his ears have stopped ringing. She pats him on the cheek.

“Good boy.”

This time, he doesn’t try to bite her.

*

When Scott’s sure she’s gone, he tugs sharply at his manacles again, and this time, they give way. He stumbles a few steps, leans heavily against a metal table. “We have to get out of here,” he whispers, looking at the door.

“We can’t. No supernatural creature can get past the barrier she’s put around the house. It’s mountain ash.” Derek says, as if it’s supposed to mean something to him.

“More plants?” he asks, and he’s kind of whining but he figures he’s got the right to. Derek doesn’t nod so much as sag again, arms shaking. Angry at everything, Scott rips the pad off Derek’s torso, twists the manacles sharply until they come apart with a faint clunk. Derek lurches forward, makes Scott stagger with his weight so he kneels down, then sits, Derek’s head in his lap. He gets the belt from his jeans, ties it around the top of Derek’s arm, just above the black veins, tight as he can. “That okay?” he asks. Derek nods, once.

“You need to cut off my arm,” Derek says as if they’re discussing the weather. “No, listen, if the wolfsbane gets to my heart, I’ll die. You have to, and it has to be soon. I don’t know what she has planned, but I need—”

“—to stay alive for when she kills us?”

Derek sighs, closes his eyes for a few seconds. “There should be a bonesaw in one of those bags. Hunters carry their own tools. You might need to tie me down for this part.”

He wishes Derek was joking, but he doesn’t know if Derek is capable of making jokes, or even smiling. What he does know is that Derek wants to live. There’s a grimness about him, a determination, and even if he loses his arm, even if he’s weakened, defeated, tortured, he wants to live. Scott has seen it in animals, that will to survive, and he knows that he has to do it, to cut Derek’s arm off, but he also knows that Derek will survive it. He nods sharply, throat clicking as he tries to swallow.

He’s reaching for one of the large black bags on the floor when Derek lifts his head up from Scott’s lap, nostrils flaring. “The Alpha’s nearly here,” he says.

Scott can feel it, can get a sense of something monstrous and powerful, alien, but underneath it, almost too subtle to distinguish, is a sense of something as familiar as can be, but no less powerful. “So is Stiles,” he says, and smiles at Derek’s disbelieving huff as he hears to a metallic clunk and shuffling footsteps. When he turns back to gloat, Derek’s eyes are closed, chest rising and falling shallowly, his head lolling back. His hands are still clenched in pain. Scott has to look twice when Stiles comes in, because it is Stiles; he’d be able to recognize that face anywhere, but at the same time, it isn’t. His skin is pink, not green and , his wings are gone. He’s wearing an oversized lacrosse sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. He looks _human_. He also looks tired, eyes shadowed. “Stiles?” Scott starts, but Stiles puts a finger to his lips with a sly wink, opens the door a little wider.

“Is this where—oh, jeez. Scott,” the Sheriff says as he pauses in the doorway. “And Mr Hale. What have you two gotten yourselves into?” he asks, but he never asks as many dumb questions as most adults do, so he quickly closes the door, goes to kneel next to Derek. “Son, they need to go to the hospital,” the Sheriff says, but Stiles ignores him. He’s emptying out his pockets onto the table, plant after plant that smells wrong, makes Scott’s nose itch. Even with the pervasive scent of the plants, something in Scott settles. He has Stiles, so everything will be okay.

“Wolfsbane, why are there so many types? Wolfsbane, wolfsbane, wolfsbane, tinker, tailor, soldier,” Stiles mutters to himself, and Scott isn’t quite so sure suddenly. “Peacekeeper, pick one,” Stiles says, gestures to the table. “Any one.”

The Sheriff looks up at him, his fingers on the side of Derek’s neck. “Stiles, what are you—this isn’t the time for guessing games, kid, and those plants aren’t going to help. I need to call in backup, get an ambulance here.”

Stiles takes a breath, taps a few times on the table. Scott moves closer, looks down at the flowers, the wilted leaves. “Your wife, Claudia, used to visit me. That’s where the jeep is, that’s why she wouldn’t let you get it towed out of the preserve. She wanted it to stay there, because she had given it to me. And she gave it to me, because I led her home, night after night, when her feet wandered where they had no business going. And she’d come back to you with her head all full of stars, and her feet covered in dew, and she was—I tried to make it easier for her, because she…she always…”

“Believed,” the Sheriff whispers, and there’s something in his face that makes Scott look away. Claudia Stilinski. His mom used to cry about her when she thought Scott was asleep. Stiles’s hands are shaking, eyes huge in his pale face as he looks down at the Sheriff. The Sheriff clears his throat, dashes his hand over his eyes. “Third from the left,” he says suddenly, and Stiles picks up a sprig with bright blue flowers, holds it up to the stark light with a smile that makes Scott think of the moon, kisses the Sheriff on the forehead and drops to his knees next to Derek, undoing the makeshift tourniquet. Derek doesn’t stir.

“Sorry wolfy,” Stiles murmurs, and before anyone has a chance to ask him what he means, he makes a flame appear between his thumb and pointer finger, passes the plant through it and slaps the ash down on Derek’s arm, right over the bullet wound. Scott doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the way Derek convulses, the arch of his back, the way he claws at the floor gasping, these deep, wrenching breaths. He can’t look away, can’t stop listening to his heart, the stuttering rhythm of it because it’s getting steadier, stronger. Derek’s gasping, yes, but he’s breathing.

“It’s working,” he says. Stiles looks up at him, spreads his arms like he’s waiting for applause, a delirious grin on his face, and Scott briefly wonders if Stiles expected it to, if he’s as surprised as Scott. He doesn’t want to know. The Sheriff is still kneeling beside him, one hand on Derek’s leg as Derek shudders and twitches.

“You call that working?” he asks, blowing out a long breath. Scott nods. “Just what are you mixed up in, son?”

Scott tries his best smile. “It’s kind of a long story?”

*

Derek can stand unaided when they get out through the tunnel. He’s still pale, though, the scent of wolfsbane and blood clinging to him, skin streaked with blood and dirt, hunched into his retrieved leather jacket, complete with bullet hole. Scott knows his mom would be telling Derek to lie down right now, to eat something, drink a glass of water. From the worried glances the Sheriff keeps darting at Derek, he thinks so too.They make their way back to the Hale house. They don’t even discuss it, just start walking silently towards danger. Scott wants to go home, wants to hide under the covers and wait until all this is over. He keeps walking, though. “Stout heart, Scotty,” Stiles murmurs to him, bumping their shoulders together.

“I know. I know. Man, it’s weird seeing you like this. I—doesn’t it make you tired? I thought it took energy to be seen,” he says quietly, because Stiles looks pale, is somehow _less_ than he is in his true form. Stiles just shrugs.

“I needed the peacekeeper to be here, so I made myself a form he could see. Tonight is a great night,” he says, and Scott knows he doesn’t mean great like a party or a sunset. He means something awful, something important.

“I’m scared of what the alpha will make me do,” he whispers, because he’s never lied about being afraid to Stiles. He’s never lied to Stiles about anything. Stiles reaches out, takes his hand. They walk through the forest like that, Derek in front, the Sheriff behind, Scott and Stiles in the middle, holding hands as if they’re children again.

When they get to the clearing in front of the Hale house, the Alpha is already there. Scott can feel his presence, the weight of it settling on his shoulders. It makes him want to show his belly, bare his throat. It makes his skin crawl with how slick and oily it feels, this cloying wrongness. The Alpha is there inside the Hale house, and Kate is outside on the rotting planks of the porch, a shotgun in her hands, watching the door. Her kit bag is open on the ground. Scott can see the glint of knives, a crossbow, chains. More guns. She’s a one woman army, and she could probably kill a whole pack of them. She hasn’t seen them yet. They stay back, stay quiet. Scott hasn’t let go of Stiles’s hand.

“Come out come out wherever you are,” Kate sing-songs. “I found your helper. Pretty handy with a hypodermic needle; she wasn’t so hot against a Taser, but hey, decent henchmen are hard to come by, right? C’mon out, you scared? I’ve got your pack here, thought you want to come help them. Well, what’s left of them. I mean, wolfsbane’s such a bitch to heal from. Almost as bad as fire.”

Derek’s scenting the air, frowning. There’s something in his scent that makes Scott feel uneasy. He’s watching the door, watching the house and it’s as if nothing else matters, not what Kate’s saying, or the way the Sheriff keeps shifting from foot to foot, watchful, tense, or the way Stiles keeps on swaying slightly, his form flickering every few seconds as his grip on the illusion weakens. When the door opens, Scott’s looking at Derek. All he can see is guilt, and hunger, something a few steps to the left of happiness. “Peter,” Derek breathes, squares his shoulders and walks up to the house without looking back.

Scott wants to yell after him. Stiles utters a series of harsh, sibilant sounds that might possibly be a curse, and the Sheriff rubs his hand briefly over his face. “Peter Hale, Derek’s uncle,” he mutters. “Formerly catatonic. With a hostage. I should’ve stayed in bed.” He edges closer to the house, keeping close to the trees where he can. Scott and Stiles follow. Scott feels a little like he has asthma, this tightness in his chest, when he sees who the hostage is. Allison’s wrists are tied, and Peter’s claws are at her neck. When Scott looks at her face, he can see that she looks more angry than scared, but she smells of blood, and her heart is beating rabbit-fast. Derek, Kate and Peter are in a standoff, stood in a loose triangle in the clearing. Kate still has her gun pointed at Peter, but Peter’s claws are drawing blood,so close to Allison’s throat that Kate can’t do anything. Derek isn’t armed. He looks as if he doesn’t know whether he should be fighting.

“You’re the Alpha,” he says quietly. “You killed my sister. Your niece.”

Peter sighs, and his expression is one of regret. “I was out of my mind with grief, with pain. It was the only way I could heal, and I took it in my insanity. I never wanted power. I only wanted to avenge our family, to find a way out of my consuming agony. I didn’t mean—I would never have hurt her in my right mind. You have to believe me.”

Derek doesn’t say anything. He just looks blank.

“And now we can avenge our pack. Now I have a beta,” Peter says, and he looks straight at Scott. “Come closer,” he says directly to Scott. He can’t resist, not when it’s underlaid with something like a growl, something raw and primal. Scott can feel his feet moving without him even meaning to, and it’s only when he’s right next to Derek that he can control his limbs again. “I wouldn’t do that, Kate,” Peter says quietly, and he draws a thin line of blood across Allison’s throat. He only sounds mildly annoyed, even with a gun aimed at his head. “Lower your gun. There’s still hope for the youngest Argent, but that’s not to say I won’t kill her if you so much as twitch that trigger finger. Kick that bag over.” Kate doesn’t move. Peter draws another line of blood. Allison’s struggling now, thrashing in his grip. Scott can’t stop looking at her. He sags when Kate gives in, when Peter’s grip loosens.

“Come out of the shadows, Sheriff, Stiles,” Peter says, and the claws on Allison’s throat are enough to make the Sheriff step out, Stiles in his wake. The Sheriff angles his body so that he’s protecting Stiles. Scott would have preferred it if they had run, but this is murder, these are crimes. The bus driver, the body in the woods, the other mauled corpses. This is the Sheriff’s duty, and this is why Stiles loves him so much, why he used to make gold stars out of leaves and tree bark. And Stiles stays, because they’re brothers. They’re pack. Scott can feel the links between the three of them, with his mom. With Allison, because they swore that they would be friends, with Derek, because Derek looked for them when he was hurt.

He can sense something from the link between him and Peter, something ugly, but when he looks at Peter, there’s nothing more than affable interest in his expression. “We could be a family, the three of us. We could finish what I started,” he says, but Scott shakes his head, starts to fight the bond in earnest. “Very well,” Peter mutters, and quicker than Scott’s eyes can follow, he ducks down, still holding Allison, picks up the chains from Kate’s bag and sends them whipping out at the Sheriff. It’s only when Stiles utters a single shocked cry that Scott realizes what he’s done. By then it’s too late; Stiles has jumped in front of the Sheriff to protect him from the impact, and the chain whips around his neck instead. He hits the ground with a soft thud and the clanking of metal. Cold iron. Stiles lies still, a crumpled heap on the ground, trapped in his true form, blood trickling from his nose. “I claim you for the Hale pack and bind you with iron,” Peter says. Stiles doesn’t move. “And now you can be in the same pack as your fylgia, Scott. Won’t that be delightful?”

Scott isn’t listening. He runs to Stiles, kneels next to him, tugs at the chains that are bruising his skin, weakening him. Scott’s hands are clawed, and he can feel the prick of his teeth on his lower lip. He knows, deep within his bones, that there is no worse thing than to bind someone like this. He also knows that he has to stay now. He can’t abandon Stiles, not to this, not now that he’s trapped and enslaved. The Sheriff kneels down too, his heart pounding, drowning out Stiles’s thready pulse. “Stiles?” the Sheriff whispers. “Is this still Stiles? I can—it’s hard to see him.”

Scott nods. “It’s another thing I can explain later. But Peter—he used iron on him. It makes him sick, makes him do what Peter tells him. He’s a slave,” he spits out, glaring at Peter, who gives another smooth smile.

“It won’t be so bad, Scott. We can be a family. I can care for you, guide you. And Derek, does family mean so little to you?”

With every word, Scott can feel Derek weakening. “We’re the last Hales left. She took our pack, and now it’s just us. I’ve been burning for years, Derek. Don’t you want revenge? For your pack?”

Derek doesn’t speak. Out of the corner of his eye, Scott can see his fingers twitching a little. His fingers are still human. Scott has no idea how he can stay in control in front of the man who murdered his sister, even if he was out of his mind, even if he—

He’s missing something. He knows there’s a way out of this, there has to be. He can’t be a part of a pack that kills, won’t submit to Peter. Needs something to break this deadlock, created by Kate’s gun and Peter’s claws, the chains around Stiles. The Sheriff shifts from foot to foot beside him. He could arrest them all. That would solve things. Stiles wanted him to be here, and what else would a Sheriff be here to do? Stiles made a Sheriff’s star, and calls him the Peacekeeper as if he was somehow magical. Scott traces the outline of Stiles’s lips with his fingers. The Sheriff keeps the peace, Stiles will never lie to him, don’t eat certain berries, don’t go in certain caves, gifts can be good and bad. Stiles stirs, opens his eyes and tries to smile up at Scott. He doesn’t speak, because he wasn’t commanded to. Peter is the only one who can command him, now. But the Sheriff is here to hear truth. Stiles winks at him like they’re the only two in the clearing, and Scott starts to hope.

“It’ll be okay,” Scott whispers, wipes blood from the corner of Stiles’s mouth with his thumb. Then, louder, he says “I order you, my fylgia, brother of my heart, to tell the Sheriff, the keeper of the peace, the truth, about the Hale fire, and about Laura Hale and her murder.”

Stiles coughs a few times, smiles again, this time a real smile. He sits up, in spite of the weight of the chains. Peter starts to move towards them, but Stiles clicks his fingers, forces everyone to stand still, freezes their feet to the ground as if they were in concrete. Only their eyes move. Kate’s finger is tensed on the trigger, gun pointed at Peter’s back. Allison has her foot just on Peter’s instep. Derek is looking at Stiles, eyes wide, lips parted. He looks young, scared.

“I speak and will not be silenced,” Stiles begins, speaking directly to the Sheriff, voice still choked and raspy, every word an effort. “Katherine Argent, by her own cunning, did burn a whole family to death within their home. She took advantage of the innocence of some, and the greed of others, and concealed her crimes. She killed ten people, none of whom did any harm to her or her own. Peter Hale, by his own cunning, did lure Laura Hale, the rightful alpha of the Hale pack, to her death. He did so by calculated means.” Next to them, Derek growls, a long, throaty snarl. Stiles is getting more and more pale, breath more and more labored as he fights between Peter’s command and his promise to Scott, as everyone struggles to break the hold he has on them, battering against his magic. Stiles’s voice weakens, but he keeps on speaking, even as more blood trickles from the side of his mouth and his fingers claw in pain. “He murdered her. He killed her for her power, in spite of the love he still had for her, and ignoring the loyalty he owed to her.”

With that final condemnation, Stiles collapses. His legs are trembling, face drawn tight with pain. Scott falls forwards when the spell breaks, puts his face right next to his heart, tries to hear Stiles’s pulse as gunshots and snarls fill the clearing in front of the house. He can smell blood, so much blood. The air is thick with it, clinging to the back of his throat. Scott doesn’t want to watch, doesn’t want to know how this is going to end, but he knows he has to. Kate is dead, her throat torn and slashed, her hand still wrapped around her gun. She died smiling, died shooting. Peter is kneeling on the ground, the stench of wolfsbane surrounding him. When he sees Scott staring at him, he smiles, still seems smug even as black blood pours out of him. He’s still looking at Scott when Derek, claws out, slashes at his throat. Derek’s feral, choked roar is the wildest sound he’s ever heard. He feels Peter die. He can feel the bond between them sever, this terrible, gaping emptiness where it used to be. He doesn’t register the next few minutes, just kneels by Stiles, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of his wings in the breeze. He’s so weak. Scott can’t get the chains from around his neck. He wants to snap them.

When he looks up again, Allison’s wearing the Sheriff’s jacket, and one of the men who found him when he wandered up into the hills is holding her close, talking to the Sheriff. Both of them are looking at the bodies. Derek is still crouched over his uncle’s corpse, head bowed. “Derek,” Scott says softly. When Derek lifts his head, all Scott can think of is how afraid he looks. Like a child. His eyes flash red when he looks at Scott. “You’re the Alpha,” he says, and he doesn’t know if Derek’s his Alpha or not. All he knows is that Stiles belongs to the Hale pack now. Derek doesn’t say anything, seems a little shellshocked. Scott brushes Stiles’s hair back from his forehead again, wipes away some more blood. “What—what are you going to do with Stiles?”

Derek blinks, frowns briefly. His right hand is dripping with blood, and he wipes it on Peter’s body, stands up and walks over. He’s no longer weak. He looks down at Stiles, eyes still red. “In service to the Hale pack,” he murmurs, and for a few awful seconds, Scott can see he’s tempted, but he shakes his head, crouches down next to Scott. “I’d never get a moment’s peace,” he murmurs. Scott sags next to him, lets out a sigh. Derek turns to look at him. “Scott, I’m not like him. He wasn’t an Alpha. Not like Laura, or my mother. I’m gonna try—try and be like them. If I can. But using iron is—never. I would never.”

Derek puts his hands on the ends of the chain around Stiles’s neck. “Wake up,” he says, and it’s in a voice that Scott would follow into battle, a growl behind it that makes him want to roll over and bare his throat, harmonics underlaying his voice in a way that makes Scott feel very young and very small. Stiles opens his eyes immediately, sits up like a robot. “I release you. Is that what I should say? I release you from service to the Hale pack,” Derek says, and starts to unwrap the chains from around Stiles’s neck, revealing blistered, broken skin. When the chains are completely unwrapped, Derek stands, throws them so hard that when they whip around a tree the wood splinters and cracks, shards flying in all directions. The iron links stay embedded in the wood. The cracking wood and the singing of the chains take a long time to stop resounding.

“Feeling better, wolfy?” Stiles asks. Derek flashes red eyes at him, but he just laughs. “C’mon, don’t be that way.”

Derek tilts his head to one side. “I’ve had a little bit of a bad day,” he says. Scott shifts so that he’s sitting cross legged on the ground, leaning back on his hands.

“Me too. I’m pretty sure I’m grounded,” he adds. “And I have a history paper to finish. Start.”

Derek blinks a few times. “And a full moon tomorrow night,” he says, but Scott isn’t worried about that. He has Stiles to run with. Derek sighs. “I’ll help you. Just…stay out of trouble, okay?”

“With the paper?”

“With the moon,” Derek grits out, pinches the bridge of his nose. Scott feels exhausted, a little loopy. He misses the nagging pull of the alpha, and Stiles is still wounded, still smells wrong. His mom must be worried to death, and he doesn’t know how the Sheriff’s going to explain the bodies. And Allison has just been kidnapped, has just seen her aunt, the one she loves, killed. Scott’s shaking a little. He’s seen two people die, and maybe they weren’t good people, but they were still people. Stiles reaches over, grasps both Scott’s hands.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, and Scott nods. It’s okay. It has to be, because Stiles doesn’t lie.

“You okay there, kid?” the Sheriff asks, coming over with a blanket. Patrol cars are starting to pull up, red and blue lights flashing. Scott nods, but the Sheriff crouches down anyway, drapes the blanket over Scott’s shoulders, puts his arm around him. “You did well, son. I’m proud of you.” Scott leans into him, turns his face so his cheek is pressed against the Sheriff’s chest. He closes his eyes, breathes in his familiar scent. “And Stiles. I’m proud of you, too, kid.”

“Is Allison okay?” Scott asks.

“She’s with her father. She’s shaken up, but she’s in safe hands. And I’ve called your mother to come and pick you up. She’ll be here real soon.”

“Stiles? What about you?”

“I’ll be in your bed before you,” Stiles says, and if Scott wasn’t so tired, he’d be helpless at the thought. The Sheriff sighs. It’s a particular sigh, for Stiles. Scott straightens up and opens his eyes, wants to laugh at the way Stiles is waggling his eyebrows, his wings fluttering delicately.

“And you, Derek? Where are you staying?” the Sheriff asks, standing up slowly. Derek ducks his head.

“I’m…I can leave you my number, if you need to get in touch,” he says.

“I need an address, son, just a motel room number if you’re staying somewhere temporary,” the Sheriff says, and it’s something to see the way the Sheriff’s calm authority clashes with the wilder power Derek’s just taken on. Eventually, though, Derek’s shoulders slump, and he dips his head slightly again.

“I don’t have one. I have a car. And a house. Well, some of a house,” he amends.

Scott had never considered Derek’s living situation. The Sheriff nods, grips the back of Derek’s neck briefly. “I have a spare room,” he says. “No arguing,” he adds, and he steers Derek in the direction of his patrol car. Derek follows, meek as a lamb. Stiles watches the two of them go, something old and sad in his eyes, but he smiles at Scott when he sees that Scott’s watching him. Scott smiles back, keeps their fingers laced together as his mom’s car pulls into the clearing, skidding slightly as she takes the corner.

His mom’s hug is fierce and strong. She smells like iodine and surgical spirits, is still wearing her scrubs. She doesn’t yell at him, doesn’t ask him what he was doing, just holds him. He doesn’t know what the Sheriff said to her, but she doesn’t ask him what happened, just bundles him into the car. He watches Stiles launch himself up in the air, knows that he’ll be waiting for him in his bed, then closes his eyes, soothed by the motion of the car and the familiar scents that surround him, that cut through the blood and wolfsbane, the sharp tang of fear. He’s still wearing the Sheriff’s blanket, draws comfort from that, too.

His mom makes him eat when he gets home, makes them both grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, tries not to watch him eat too obviously. She’s treading carefully tonight, and he’s grateful for it. He doesn’t want to lie to her. Doesn’t want to start worrying her again, even if spending all his time in the preserve is very much a repeat of his childhood and he figures he’s going to be running wild in the woods for at least some of the time. He even raids the kitchen for candy for Stiles before he goes up to bed, which makes his mom shake her head and fight back a smile. He rustles when she hugs him again, and she makes a point of patting him down and sighing.

Stiles in his bed, though. That’s new. He’s asleep when Scott goes into his bedroom, curled up in the upended contents of Scott’s laundry basket, wings folded close around him, knees drawn up. Something in Scott preens at their combined scents, even while he’s wondering how Stiles can stand to sleep on top of his dirty clothes. He’s kicked the comforter on to the floor, so Scott can see the line of his limbs, his long, elegant feet. He wants to touch Stiles, to be touched in return, but that can wait. Scott doesn’t even bother showering, just strips off everything but his boxers and crawls into bed, dragging the comforter over them both. Stiles’s neck still hasn’t healed. The wound looks ugly, raw. Scott doesn’t know if it will scar, if Stiles will always bear Peter’s mark. He can’t look at it for too long, just as he can’t prod at the space in his mind where Peter’s forced bond used to be too much. He looks at the sweep of Stiles’s eyelashes instead, the curve of his lips and the tilt of his nose. He looks at that familiar, beloved face until his eyelids droop and he lets himself slip into sleep, safe in the knowledge that he’s going to wake up in the same place he fell asleep in.

Scott wakes up curled up under his comforter, leaves in his hair, mud on his feet, with a smile on his face. In his arms, Stiles stirs sleepily, burrowing down deeper into the bed. Scott strokes the edges of his wings with gentle fingers. Today, he’s going to run in the forest with Stiles, maybe howl at the moon. Definitely kiss. He’s always been drawn to the woods, and now he knows why. He left his heart out there when he was a child, and never got it back. It’s okay. It’s in good hands.

 

 


End file.
